


Flowers For My Dearest

by chocolatemudkip



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Angels Becoming Humans, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), First Dates, First Time, M/M, Other, Parallel Universes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 06:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19388491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocolatemudkip/pseuds/chocolatemudkip
Summary: Crowley is soft, and Aziraphale knows it. (or: In which a timid florist cannot help but give roses to the charming tattoo artist down the street. He seems familiar somehow?)





	Flowers For My Dearest

There is a sound of wind-chimes as the greenhouse door swishes open. It's precisely 3:16 in the afternoon, and Crowley knows exactly who has entered his shop. He does every day, at the same time, without fail. "Good afternoon!" The rather cuddly-looking man with fluffy, curled hair calls out. "Anyone home?" He sets down an ink-spattered briefcase and looks around good-naturedly at Crowley's flower shop with familiarity. 

"Afternoon," grumbles Crowley, in a voice much more irritable than he actually feels. Crowley has long kept up the act of cantankerous, insociable florist--and one beautiful, particularly angelic tattoo artist down the street is not going to undo all his work. No matter how many cheerful 'hellos' and handshakes and even _hugs_ the man seems to shell out, Crowley is _not_ about to be dissuaded from his act of aloofness. It's taken work, this! 

Aziraphale--as the man in question is called--doesn't seem put-out by Crowley's attitude in the slightest. Instead, he says cheerfully, "What a miraculous new succulent display!" And he beams at Crowley across the room. "You've really nurtured the Viper's Bowstring in particular." He extends two, well-manicured fingers to gently stroke at the veins of a leaf. 

Suppressing a shiver, Crowley drops his head back to the floor he's been sweeping. "Snake plant." He says, voice clipped and brusque. If Aziraphale could take a hint--and, given previous encounters, the man simply _couldn't_ \--he would stop talking and leave Crowley's shop. He stabs at the floor with his broom. 

"Favorite of mine, actually." says a soft voice, voice quite close. Crowley startles. Somehow, Aziraphale has crossed the length of the room, woven between the plants, and closed the space between them without Crowley so much as hearing a footstep. "I spent some time in the Congo myself, back in the 80's, and I really became rather fond of them then." 

"Hmm." Crowley says through pursed lips. He doesn't want to fodder Aziraphale's chatty mood. Not even when it comes to the topic of his precious plants. 

"Anyway!" Aziraphale says, bowing to smell a Brugmansia. Mouth open, he pauses mid-sentence to inhale the smell. " _Perfect."_ He sighs with delight. "Oh, Mr. Anthony. You _do_ have such a way with green and growing things!" 

"Crowley," Crowley replies tersely. "Again, it's Crowley." He hates that he has to tell this to Aziraphale every time, giving him permission for the intimacy. He hates Aziraphale's plush lips, parted and full, hovering over the flower's pink petals. He hates his plump cheeks, his sweet dimples. "Did you come to buy something?" he forces out. 

"Don't rush me," Aziraphale chides, stranding tall once more."You go too fast for me, Crowley." As he does, the sleeves of his long t-shirt hitch on his supple arms, and pull just enough to reveal the multi-colored edges of swirling, tattooed sleeves up his arms. The patterns of the ink dance and dazzle on Aziraphale's skin, a combination of clouds and something too marvelous, too complex to the eye, to explain. It looks for all the world as if the designs are _moving._ Aziraphale looks up, just in time to catch Crowley's eyes on his arms. He and gives a mischievous wink and says, "I like yours, too, you know." 

"Pardon?" Crowley asks, feeling a flush in his cheekbones. 

"Your tattoo," Aziraphale says, gesturing at the curving line-work behind Crowley's jawbone and ear. "I told you, I'm rather fond of snakes myself." Totally ignoring Crowley's personal space, the artist leans in to admire the serpent on Crowley's head. "Mmm. Not sure how I feel about the methods, though. Scarring? Some kind of scraper, I suspect?" His breath fans, warm and feathery, on Crowley's exposed neck.

Crowley lurches, stumbling over his forgotten broom. "Ex-CUSE you!," he splutters, rage covering his building arousal. "A bit _rude,_ not to mention _personal_ \--" Aziraphale holds up his hands in surrender, apologetic smile making Crowley's knees melt. Crowley clings to the broom, searching for words. "You can't just--waltz in here, touch my plants, touch my _neck,_ and--" 

"I'm sorry, my dear." Aziraphale says, calm and sincere as the evening breeze. "I forget myself. It's just that, I feel as though we've _known_ each other somehow. For _such_ a long time. Years, maybe decades. A lifetime, even." He dips his curled head apologetically. 

"We met six weeks ago," Crowley grumbles, wiping a hand over his brow. He's counted. Every single day that Aziraphale's golden, pleasant warmth has entered the shop, he's counted. It's impossible not to notice, what with the man's friendly and forward presence bubbling around and mucking things up.

"You've been counting, too?" Aziraphale says softly, surprised. He sounds rather pleased at the prospect. 

Crowley gathers himself. "What do you want, Aziraphale?" he asks irritably, doing his best to sound intimidating. "Come to pick up some roses again?" The sooner he could get the exuberant man out of his shop, the better. And he always left with a bouquet of flowers, so this might speed the process. "I have some daffodils that may be to your liking." It should have been inviting; Crowley said it like a command. 

"No, thank you, my dear." Aziraphale says, using the pet name again. "Actually..." He pauses, chewing on one of those succulent lips. Crowley waits an agonizing moment, trying his best to imagine the way it must feel in the warmth of his mouth, the soft bites of his teeth, when Aziraphale says, "I wanted to ask you out on a date." 

Crowley blinks. Once, twice, three times. He opens his mouth to say something, and then, he closes it again. How had this happened? After all of the signs, all his effort, his useless projecting, how had Aziraphale seen so clearly through him? Crowley feels both excited and horrified. "What?" 

"Yes," Aziraphale says, more confidently. "I'd like to take you out on a date. What do you think? What if we went out for dinner? Explore the Cathedral? Feed those baby ducks down by the pond?" Aziraphale smiles, looking confident and at ease. Clearly, he has been thinking about this for some time, and that does wonders to Crowley's insides. His mouth feels dry. 

"I'm not religious." Crowley says dumbly, thinking of cathedrals. _Shit!_ The first thing out of his mouth, after being asked on a date by the most gorgeous man he has ever seen (and has been most _patently_ avoiding!), is something that suggests he's _not interested?!_ Crowley feels like he might die on the spot. 

"Okay," Aziraphale says with a shrug. "How about I show you my tattoo parlor then?" He jerks one thumb behind him, gesturing to the direction down the street. "I mostly do saints and memoriams...but. I bet you'd still find the work interesting?" His eyebrows are raised, hopeful and curious.

Crowley feels a sense of despair at how quickly he's falling. "Yeah," the florist says, rasping the word. "Sure." 

Aziraphale beams, and steps forward into Crowley's space once more. He opens his arms, inviting an embrace--a gesture he's given to Crowley, without preamble, since the two of them met. "I'll see you at 8?" He asks with cheerful radiance.

For the first time, Crowley does not stiffen away from his gaze. Instead, he allows himself to be folded in Aziraphale's pillowy arms, feeling his own bony ribs press against him. Aziraphale is warm, soft, and _safe._ And Crowley has never been good at resisting. "Okay." He mumbles into the shorter man's hair, still drunk from the rapid progression of events. And Aziraphale accused _him_ of moving _too fast!_ "I'll be ready by eight." He closes his eyes, takes a moment to breathe in the smell of the man holding him: sweet and acrid at the same time: sugar and ink, outdoors and electricity. 

"Great!" Aziraphale says, nuzzling against Crowley. "And I'll take the roses, please." 

* * *

Crowley can hardly focus on his work. He goes about the shop, misting plants and grumbling curses at random. He re-pots the begonias, finds better sunlight for the geraniums, fixes the net for the sugar-snap peas. _Idiot!_ _I should have known!_ For all of his efforts to look detached and dreary, this nurturing nature had given him away after all.

"This is your fault, you know!" he snaps at the lettuce, which quivers and shrinks back as he prowls by. "Now I will have to...I'll..." he imagines himself sinking against Aziraphale; taking Aziraphale's soft, gentle face in his hands; kissing Aziraphale, long and deep. 

"And _you!"_ He says, rounding on the roses. They stand prim and stately, thorns and soft petals lovely alike. "You couldn't mind your own business, could you!" He grabs a handful of and rips them ruthlessly out from the jar. "Had to make it personal!" He snarls, giving them a little shake. Water drips from the stems and speckles the floor. "Had to make it _romantic!"_

With his other hand, he winds the beginnings of wrapping around their base. In just a few moments, he has deftly produced a lovely bouquet. Sniffing distain, Crowley searches for the appropriate ribbon to hold them together. He picks one that is bright and sea-green, like Aziraphale's eyes. "Had to _give me away,"_ he is muttering.

Crowley holds the bouquet at arms length, feeling his stomach flip-flop in his core. _"A date with me?"_ the ghost of Aziraphale asks, smiling politely from his memory. Crowley gives a soft sob and sets them aside. 

* * *

At precisely 8:28 in the evening, a knock comes to the door of the shop. Crowley had put up the "Closed" sign immediately after Aziraphale left, but he knew it wouldn't keep the man back. With a sigh, he unfolds his long, lanky limbs and makes his way to the door. Naturally, Aziraphale is standing outside, looking--there is no other word-- _dapper._

"Um," Crowley says, opening the door. Aziraphale, who has been looking up at the stars, turns and beams at him. It's like the dawn, the sunset, all over again. "Crowley!" Aziraphale says, "Are you ready, my dear?" He notices the own set of roses Crowley is holding in his arms, and he grins pearly-white teeth at him. "My goodness!" He says, "those are a lovely display!" 

"They're for you," Crowley says, thrusting them out to Aziraphale. "Know how you like flowers." _Dumb thing to say._ Aziraphale reverently takes them out of his hands as though he had not been to the store every day for the past six weeks, purchasing plants faithfully from his keep, and not but a few hours ago. Crowley wishes that he hadn't spent the afternoon at the shop, staring at the bouquet, and had gone home to change his dirt-coated tunic.

"Thank you." Aziraphale sighs, cradling the flowers."Do you know, roses are my second-favorite?" He gives them a deep sniff, and then sighs again. Crowley could do with hearing a _lot more_ of those deep sighs throughout the evening. He hopes that he will. "It's very thoughtful of you, my dear." 

Crowley isn't sure what to say, so he just rubs at his arm nervously. Aziraphale catches the movement, then catches his eye. He smiles a reassuring smile. "Dinner?" He says, reaching out to take Crowley's hand. Where Aziraphale has a lovely French Manicure, Crowley has dark stains and soil trapped under his nails. The angelic man doesn't seem to mind. "I booked us somewhere you might like..."

Aziraphale gives Crowley's hand a gentle squeeze. 

* * *

Spending time with Aziraphale is _easy_ , it turns out. Almost _natural,_ as if he's done it before. 

Crowley enjoys holding the man's warm, soft hand in his own, and he enjoys the near-constant murmur of his bubbling, friendly chatter. As they walk down the cobblestone streets of the city, Aziraphale points up at the darkening sky, gesturing to a constellation or two. Crowley doesn't listen so much to the specifics as he does to the calming flow of the other man's voice. Someday, he will tell Aziraphale about his hobby of studying astronomy. Someday, he will take Aziraphale to the stars. 

If sharing time with Aziraphale is easy, sharing a _meal_ is even _better_. As it turns out, mealtime is an _exquisite_ occasion to watch Aziraphale's face: the way his lips move over and around a glittering spoon; the way his tongue runs over the edge of his lip, catching a sauce; the way he carefully sucks the last drops off his spoon around a soft groan of delight. "Outstanding!" he exclaims, sinking back in his seat. "I've had many good meals, but they've _really_ outdone themselves this time!"

Crowley raises a hand to his mouth to cover a burp. "Yes," he agrees simply. It has been _divine._ Four courses of some of the most expertly made and robustly flavored plates he had tasted, and yet, he does feel bloated to bursting. Instead, Crowley feels very comfortable, maybe even light-headed, as he sips desert-wine alongside Aziraphale. In this moment, it rather doesgive the sense that they'd met before--had been doing such things, together, for such a long time. Perhaps, since the beginning of time. "Thank you," Crowley says, "I loved it, Aziraphale." 

The both of them stiffen. He hadn't meant to make it sound so _forthright--_ he was always so careful, so measured!--but the honest intimacy had just slipped right out. It was so _easy_ to be himself-- _soft--_ when he was with Aziraphale. 

With a delighted sigh, Aziraphale gentles, and his relaxed posture relaxes Crowley, too. "And I, my dear." He says pleasantly, stretching out his hand to lay on top of Crowley's. For a moment they just sit there, enjoying the touch of the other's skin in companionable silence. Crowley can't help but stare: the warmth and affection radiating out of the angelic man across from him could almost be converted to a kind of light.

Just to be sure, Crowley raises his spare hand and rubs at his eyes. The gesture seems to shake Aziraphale out of the moment. at one of his eyes . "Oh!" the tattoo artist says with a start, "I'm forgetting myself! It's getting quite late. We best get moving, if we want to stop by my shop!" 

As Aziraphale rises up from the table, he extends one arm to help Crowley up. The light makes a halo of light from above as Crowley looks up, taking his hand. 

* * *

Aziraphale is leaning over Crowley, crowding his shoulder, as Crowley explores the pedal of the irons. Push down with a foot, and the needles accelerate their speed; lift up the pressure, they slow to a standstill. "You see?" Aziraphale says into Crowley's neck, his breathe warm and wine-scented, close by his ear. "Much more sophisticated than using a _hammer_." As he draws back from Crowley, Aziraphale's hands brush over his shoulders. 

"When did you start working in body art?" Crowley asks, setting the coil of machinery down. As the night had continued, Crowley had found his sentences expanding, his curiosity coming closer to the surface, and he allowed himself glimpses of affection. There was something about Aziraphale that made him want to discard his rough-and-tumble act and offer himself as he truly was. "What made you like it?"

Aziraphale, leaning back against a red-painted wall, shrugs his shoulders. It seems to Crowley that is something _right (_ although _unexpected)_ about the man's affiliation with sharp and dangerous things. "A long time ago," Aziraphale says. "I always loved art. Theatre, drama, literature. It wasn't until I was in university that I became fascinated with body arts."

He runs a loving thumb on the edge of a sanitized countertop and continues. "When I studied abroad, I was exposed to lots of different ideas. New things. So many worlds that I'd never seen of or heard of, let alone explored." He looks up, catching Crowley's gaze. "For so long, I'd been told that it was a disgrace, a marring, to change your body with piercings and ink. And then, as a pilgrim, I met people who were monks, priests, diviners of their faith tradition. They told me their stories, used used ink as a way to express their devotion, as a way to thank and praise their god." Aziraphale gestures at the large, stained-glass windows surrounding his shop. "And I am convinced that nothing this beautiful-- _art!--_ could ever be sin." He sighs happily. "All art praises God."

"Beautiful," Crowley agrees, staring at Aziraphale. He's not sure about Aziraphale's devotion to faith or an almighty god, but he sure likes to hear him talk about his passions. Aziraphale's passion is _lovely,_ and it flushes his cheeks pink with a beauteous awe. It's enough to make Crowley want to hear more. Experience more. Partake in more. So long as it's with Aziraphale.

For a moment, Crowley stares with naked devotion and want at Aziraphale. And it is this moment that Aziraphale turns his full gaze upon Crowley. He looks him dead in the eye, as if seeing through him, and the look _burns_ like _fire_ _._ "Crowley." he says. 

Crowley gulps, exposed, feeling like a flower pulled from its roots. Here he is, in full venerability, being examined--being _seen!--_ by this man, Aziraphale. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale says again, softly. He pushes off the counter, moves towards the trembling florist. As he is approached, Crowley doesn't know what to do: he feels trapped, he feels known, he feels naked as the day he was born. "Dear Heart," Aziraphale asks, "are you okay?" He extends a hand, tenderly, touching Crowley's cheek. Crowley can't help but shiver and sink into the touch. _Like bathing in the warmth of the sun._

"I want you," Crowley hears himself saying. Not internally: externally. Out-loud. To Aziraphale.

The other makes a soft noise of agreement, and draws himself closer to Crowley's rigid form. "Yes, I know." he whispers against Crowley's jaw. "And I want you, too." It's that smell again: the one that is distinctly Aziraphale. Crowley breathes it in, feels himself now touching Aziraphale toe-hip-shoulder. Aziraphale turns his head so that it rests against Crowley's chest, his sea-green eyes gazing up at him. "You're a favorite of mine, actually."

Before Crowley can ask what that means, Aziraphale raises his lips, presses them against the place on Crowley's jawline near his snake tattoo. Without asking for permission, a soft moan escapes from somewhere deep within Crowley's chest. 

"Can I touch you?" Aziraphale asks, soft and sweet, yet insistent. 

" _Please."_ Crowley breathes. He feels himself bloom. 

* * *

The lights are turned off in the parlor, but everything else is so _very_ turned on. Crowley is sprawled on the floor of the breakroom, gasping, as Aziraphale straddles him, holding him down. "You're so _lovely_ ," Aziraphale says, running his hands down Crowley's core. "So _kind._ So _tender."_ He kisses a line down down Crowley's prone body, working his tongue from clavicle downward. 

"I'm _not._ " Crowley moans, flooded with _want_ and _need_ and _praise_ and _gratitude._ Aziraphale, for everything, _sees_ him. Has always seen him. And he doesn't hesitate to show his affection. Crowley shivers at the feeling of being known--both in his soul, and now, apparently, his body. He's ached for this moment. 

"You _are,_ " Aziraphale counters softly. He shifts his pelvis off Crowley, brings his mouth down to the edge of his trousers. "Yes?" He asks again, as he has every time. _Yes,_ he had touched him. _Yes,_ he had lain him down. _Yes,_ he had kissed him. _Yes,_ he had placed his full weight upon Crowley. _Yes,_ he had stripped their top layers of clothing. _Yes,_ he had worked his way down with his mouth. _Yes,_ thought Crowley, internally screaming for everything, everything. Yes, yes, _"Yes."_ he says, again to Aziraphale. Crowley's voice shakes a little.

* * *

It's a cliche, Crowley knows, but he likes the look of them. As he runs his hands over Aziraphale's back, he admires the set of wing tattoos, thick and feathery. They wings the fullness of his soft back, making Aziraphale look all the world for an angel. An angel who is, in a manner of speaking, about to ream his ass within inches of heaven.

"Alright?" The angel Aziraphale asks, working his hands into Crowley's hips. Each fingertip pushes deep enough to leave a dark bruise, but Crowley hears them only as a reply to the fearsome longing in his own flesh. 

"Yes," Crowley pants, his heart racing. "Yes, please, if you would--" 

" _There_ you are!" Aziraphale beams, and lines himself up behind Crowley's pelvis. "I just _knew_ there was a sweet, polite angel waiting inside of you--" And before Crowley can protest that _no, he's very much not an angel, more of a demon, thank you--_ Aziraphale gives a powerful burst of his hips. Both of them gasp with the shock of the breach, and Aziraphale lets out a low-throated moan. " _Crowley..."_ He drops his head against Crowley's back, panting with a heaving chest. _"Crowley."_

From the floor, Crowley hisses frustration at the moment's pause. He's _ready._ They've been kissing, cuddling, canoodling for hours! Aziraphale has taken the time to hold him, to stroke him, to work him gently open--and now that Crowley'd taken several fingers, he's more than wet and willing. "By god--by satan--for somebody's sake!" Crowley snaps, wriggling his hips in desperation. "Aziraphale, _fuck me!"_

"Y _es!"_ Aziraphale agrees, bearing back down. For a sweaty moment, Aziraphale adjust his grip-and then, the angle drives Crowley down, _hard_. The pair of them cry out in unison, harmonic low-notes, as Aziraphale roles his pelvis, again and again. And with each movement, they begin to steadily build up a rhythm.

As Aziraphale's pants weave with Crowley's grateful sobs, Crowley is unsure if he's ever felt so divine, so _right,_ in his life. Each movement together is one of belonging, their own, until he feels nearly ready to burst. It's like: green and growing things. It's like: the plunge of a needle into ready flesh. It's like: jam and biscuits, seaside picnics, long strolls after dark. It's like heaven. It's like hell. Crowley feels as though he has filled himself out--found the other part of his soul--as Aziraphale fills him. The two of them joined is just _meant to be._

"Aziraphale," Crowley gasps, now feeling perfectly-manicured fingernails biting into the flesh of his ass, "I'm getting close--" He shudders, then finds himself flat in his ecstasy. As Crowley pours out onto the concrete, Aziraphale joins him with a joyful, wet sound. He pulls out of Crowley, and, taking himself in hand, pulls off with several swift strokes-- _one, two, three,_ just like his knocks on the door of his shop. Crowley groans with delight and exhaustion, turning his head to see Aziraphale's beatific smile as he comes beside him. 

* * *

It takes quite a while for them to come down. For a long time, they are unaware of the hard, concrete floor--until Crowley begins to get chilly, and Aziraphale moves them to one of his shop chairs. "That was brilliant," Aziraphale says, sounding thoroughly satisfied. "Not what I was expecting, but brilliant." He tugs Crowley down into his lap, and he holds him there against his warm chest. Given his soft shape, Aziraphale is still huffing from the Effort they've made. 

Crowley, too hazy and love-drunk to gripe, settles in. "Yeah?" He asks, feeling Aziraphale's heartbeat. "What did you expect?" 

"Flowers." Aziraphale says, gesturing to the countless arrangements dried on his wall. _Crowley's_ bouquets, preserved and displayed. Six months of them. "Food. A kiss goodnight, maybe." 

"I hope you're not too disappointed, Angel." Crowley replies. Even in his stupor, he realizes the sound of his soppy confession. Crowley bites his lip, hoping that it hadn't sounded as _stupid_ to his new lover as it did to his own ear. _Curse this beautiful angel, for making him like this!--_

"Never, dear heart." Aziraphale says. He cups Crowley's chin in his hands, and the tone of his voice achingly tender. "Never from you." He kisses Crowley's lip. Crowley sighs, relaxes into Aziraphale's pillowy chest. It all feels so very... _familiar_ to him. Crowley does not understand it. He cannot fathom it. But he knows that right now, he does not need to. Right now, all he needs is to lie here, in Aziraphale's arms.


End file.
